


Never Miss a Cue

by infiniteeight



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: BDSM, Barebacking, Collars, D/s, Get Together, M/M, Possessive Behavior, bottom!Phil, dom!Clint, implied but not graphic torture, sub!Phil, top!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteeight/pseuds/infiniteeight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the following Tumblr prompt: "Clint claiming possession of Phil. Not general D/s and not garden variety jealousy. Ownership. Marking. Collars are good. Collars are really quite lovely."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Miss a Cue

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Never Miss a Cue (Chinese Translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1475158) by [lzqsk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzqsk/pseuds/lzqsk)



Clint had never owned anything before he came to SHIELD.

When he was a kid, he learned pretty fast that claiming anything for his own was asking to lose it. To a stomp of his dad's foot, punishment for one thing or another. To Barney, who thought Clint's anger was funny. To running away, leaving everything behind in the futile search for a safe place.

At the circus, there was never enough of anything. Almost everyone had to share, and it took a hell of a lot of work to earn something you got to keep just for yourself. Clint shared his sleeping space, his blankets, his utensils, his earnings. His clothes were hand me downs. His bow was Trickshot's spare. His costume belonged to the group, not to him. Maybe one day he'd earn something to keep, but it all fell apart before he got that far, and then he was running again.

After the Marines took him in, everything was generic and standard issue. The only things that were really yours were the knickknacks family sent from home.

Clint didn't have family.

He liked the way the other guys talked about theirs, though. My sister, they'd say, fond and protective. My brother. My folks. Clint liked that idea, that a whole person could belong to you.

He liked how the guys talked about their girlfriends best. "That's _my_ girl," they'd say sharply, if they caught someone looking at a picture the wrong way. They'd tuck it into a pocket and pat it securely. He didn't like it when they laughed it off and said, "Oh, shit, don't tell her I said that," though.

If Clint had someone like that, he'd want them to be proud they belonged to him. He'd lie back in his bunk and imagine saying, "You're mine," and them saying back, "Yes." He thought about putting marks on them. Hickeys at first, then piercings. Then tattoos. There was always interesting porn floating around whatever base he was stationed at. The first time he dug up a magazine showing a girl wearing a collar, he kept it until the pages fell apart. It wasn't as permanent as a tattoo, but everyone knew what it meant.

But everyone in the Marines belonged to the Marines, not the other way around.

Clint was having a drink off base when he met Coulson. The suit sat down next to him and gave him the spiel. Clint listened, but it didn't sound that different from the Marines. Follow orders. Shoot things. He was planning on saying no when Coulson tossed his business card on the bar and said, "That's yours."

Clint snorted and pushed it back. "Yeah, right. You've probably given a hundred of those away."

Coulson looked at him like he's said something important. Then he took the card, turned it over, and wrote a phone number on the back. "That's my personal cell," he said, sliding the card back towards Clint. "Now it's not like any of the others."

Clint took the card. He also called the number at three in the morning. Coulson answered with a, "Yeah?"

"Shit," Clint blurted. "This really is your personal number."

"Yes, it is. What can I do for you, Barton?"

Clint hung up. He also walked into SHIELD headquarters at dawn. Coulson was waiting for him.

Clint kept the card. It was the first thing anyone had given to him, the first thing Clint knew was just for him, that he could keep, and it was a little piece of Coulson. Clint wondered if Coulson understood that, sometimes. He wondered if Coulson knew that sometimes Clint would lie back in the dark and imagine that, instead of hanging up, he'd said, "Get yourself off for me," and Coulson did. Most of the time Clint thought that Coulson had no idea. But there were other times... 

When people asked what Clint was to him, Coulson always said, "I'm his handler." Never, "He's my asset."

When Clint called Coulson's personal number, he always picked up.

When Clint asked for something--really asked, not just screwing around, and Coulson always knew the difference--Coulson always got it for him.

But most of the time, he wasn't sure. Not until Fury sent Coulson on an op without him--and that was never going to happen again if Clint had any fucking say--and the whole team got captured and Clint went in with the retrieval team. He broke off from them early, while they were systematically securing the compound, took to the vents, and went looking for Coulson. He found him chained to the ceiling, arms stretched over his head, naked to the waist, with an interrogator standing over him with a pair of electrodes. Clint swallowed the growl and forced himself to take the time to evaluate the situation.

"The others went too easy on you," the interrogator said. He turned the voltage up several notches. "They thought you were just a suit. But I know better, and you're mine now."

Coulson's laughter drowned out Clint's growl. "I don't belong to you," he said.

The interrogator raised his eyebrows. "Oh? Who do you belong to, then, Agent Coulson?"

Coulson smiled. "You'll know him when you see him."

That was a fucking cue if Clint had ever heard one.

He punched out the grate he'd been watching through, dropped into the room, and put a knife in the interrogator's throat. The man was still gurgling on the floor when Clint walked up to Coulson. He stepped right into Coulson's personal space and didn't hesitate to put his hands on Coulson's skin, because Coulson was _his_. "Hello, sir," he said, pulling Coulson in so that his naked chest pressed against the rough fabric and zippers and buckles of Clint's field vest. He ran his hands over Coulson's back, cupped a shoulder blade possessively.

"Good to see you, Hawkeye," Coulson said. He didn't comment on the way Clint was touching him. "Did you leave any of these bastards for me?"

"A whole compound full," Clint promised him. He reached up to release the manacles around Coulson's wrists. "Had to come get you back, first."

Coulson rubbed his wrists and looked Clint in the eye. "Back?" he said. "You never lost me."

Clint didn't kiss him them, but only because he knew that if he started, he wasn't going to be able to stop. Instead he stripped off the tank top he wore under his field vest and gave it to Coulson, because the man's skin was his and no one else's. They shot their way through the compound and met the extraction team half way, but Clint held his place at Coulson's back. He stayed there while the medics checked Coulson over and when they made noises about monitoring him, Clint pinned them with a look and said, "You can release him into my care." The medic hesitated and looked at Coulson. Clint's stomach twisted, but the moment stretched on and Coulson didn't speak. Clint relaxed as he felt the authority settle back into his grip. He caught the medic's eye and repeated, "You'll release him into my care."

The medic glanced at Coulson again, then turned back to Clint and nodded. "Yes, sir."

Clint took Coulson back to his hotel room and stripped him bare, carefully scrubbed him down in the shower, and laid him out on the bed and claimed every part of him with lips and teeth, sucking bruises into his skin. And Coulson-- _Coulson_ , who never let anyone see him sweat, who juggled the myriad tasks of mission command without a single hesitation, who once took a bullet to the gut and reported "Agent down" so calmly that the medics didn't realize he was the downed Agent until they arrived--came apart under Clint's hands. And when Clint said, "You're mine," Coulson gasped, " _Yes._ " over and over. It was the single best day of Clint's life.

He hoped he was about to outdo it.

Stepping into their apartment, Clint smiled to hear the television going, the sharp voices of some reality TV idiots drifting out of the living room. With their schedules, it wasn't easy to get Phil home first, and sometimes it meant Clint killing some time elsewhere, but it had been one of his very first requirements: he wanted Phil waiting for him, wanted to come home to him. Clint hung up his jacket, but left his boots and fingerless gloves on as he made his way into the living room. Phil muted the TV and smiled up at him. He was wearing the clothes Clint had chosen that morning, left folded and ready on the bed for when Phil got home: a v-necked sweater that showed off the marks of Clint's teeth and loose cotton drawstring pants. No shoes or socks, of course. Clint liked Phil in bare feet at home.

"Clint," Phil said.

Clint loved how Phil said his name, soft and open. He climbed onto the couch, kneeling astride Phil's lap, and took Phil's chin in his hand, tilting it up and kissing him, deeply, savoring the way Phil went pliant under him. Yes. This was right. Clint pulled away slowly, stroking Phil's neck. "I have something for you," he murmured. He moved off of Phil, sitting on the couch instead. "Go fetch the black box from our bedside table drawer."

The box has been there for almost a week, the time letting Clint cool down after the excitement of buying it so that he could be truly, absolutely certain about this. He'd seen Phil looking at it curiously, but Clint knew Phil hadn't looked. 

Phil returned, box in hand, and Clint sat up on the couch and spread his legs. Phil took his cue and sank to his knees between Clint's feet, raising curious eyes to Clint's. Clint didn't usually have him kneel, preferring to have Phil's whole body within easy reach of his hands, but for this it felt right. "Open it," Clint said, his voice catching slightly, suddenly nervous.

Phil opened the box.

The collar was V-shaped at the front, the point of the V filled by a stainless steel diamond inscribed with a bow and arrow. The black leather swept around to buckle in the back. It would, Clint knew, sit low on Phil's throat, safely beneath the line of a dress shirt.

" _Oh_ ," Phil said softly, the single syllable full of wonder and pleasure and longing. Clint let out a silent breath of relief and watched as Phil reached out to draw the pad of his finger over smooth, heavy leather of the band. 

"Here," Clint said, holding out his hand. Phil lifted the collar out of the box and handed it to Clint. Setting the box aside, he closed his eyes and bent his head.

Clint found himself holding his breath as he opened the buckle, leaned forward and wrapped the leather around Phil's throat. He buckled it carefully and cupped the back of Phil's neck in his hand for a long moment before letting him lift his head. Clint couldn't help but moan at the sight of the collar circling Phil's throat, Clint's symbol shining proudly at the front. He pulled Phil up off his knees and into his lap. "You like it?" Clint asked, kissing Phil before he could answer. Phil put his arms around around Clint's neck and leaned into the kiss, sucking eagerly on Clint's tongue when Clint slipped it into his mouth. Clint broke the kiss and pressed their foreheads together. "You look so good in my collar," Clint said hoarsely. "Gonna take you out sometime, somewhere safe, and show everyone what a perfect man I've claimed."

Phil moaned and rocked his hips, his cock tenting the drawstring pants and rubbing against Clint's belly. "Would you take me right there?" he murmured. "Turn me over and mount me while they watched?"

Clint growled and kissed Phil quick and hard. "You know better than that. _I'm_ the only one who gets to see you when you're like this." Clint shifted his grip, braced himself, and stood up, lifting Phil with him. Phil's legs quickly wrapped securely around his waist. Clint walked the two of them into the bedroom and managed to get one knee up on the bed before he had to put Phil down. He leaned forward, going slowly, laying Phil out right in the middle of the bed and crawling up after him to kneel astride his hips, hands braced on either side of his head. Phil was relaxed and smiling beneath him, open and soft in the way that no one else ever saw him. "You're so perfect," Clint breathed. He leaned down to nuzzle at the collar. "I wish everyone could see you in my collar."

Phil moved his arms over his head, but he didn't take hold of the headboard. "I'd wear it openly, if you asked."

Reluctantly, Clint sat back on his heels so that he could help Phil out of his shirt and pants. "I know you would," he said, running his hands over Phil's skin as it was exposed. "But then you'd have to waste time putting idiots in their place every time you turned around. Besides," Clint tossed the last of Phil's clothes aside and lay down on top of him, still fully clothed himself, right down to his boots and gloves, "everyone knows you belong to me, anyway. If not quite how thoroughly."

"H-how," Phil stuttered as Clint ground against him, the folds and zippers and straps of his clothing catching roughly against sensitive skin, "do you know they know?"

Clint chuckled, sliding down Phil's body and kissing his chest, running his lips over skin, curls of chest hair tickling his nose, and searching for a likely spot. "Because," he said, breathing hot against a patch just above Phil's nipple, "if someone's thinking of putting a hand on you, they look at me first."

"Oh," Phil breathed, and then cried out as Clint nipped the patch of skin hard and went to work sucking a hickey into being. Phil gasped and keened and arched up to meet Clint's lips, but he didn't bring his hands down from over his head.

Clint pulled back to survey his handiwork. The mark was darkening quickly, large and clear against Phil's skin. Heat throbbed through Clint; his dick pushed uncomfortably against his pants. Looking up at Phil, the open surrender on Phil's face sent a bolt of urgency through Clint. "Get on your belly," he ordered hoarsely. Coulson rolled over immediately, keeping his hands above his head. When Clint tapped his hip he lifted up enough to have a pillow placed underneath him, raising up his ass and putting it on offer for Clint. 

Clint ran his hands over Phil's back and sides, palmed his skin and leaned down to place a soft, wet kiss at the base of his spine. "All mine," he murmured, nuzzling the skin. He slid down and placed another kiss on Phil's tailbone, then used his hands to spread the cheeks of Phil's ass and pressed a kiss to the small, puckered hole. "You been taking good care of this for me?" he asked, flicking his tongue over the sensitive skin. Phil whimpered, the muscle of his ass flexing under Clint's hands. "Keeping it all nice and clean for me?"

"Yes," Phil said, his words falling over each other. "Yes, always." He lifts his hips into Clint's touch and moans when Clint pushes his tongue inside. "You know I always make sure your things are ready for you."

A hot, tight curl of _Yes_ flared in Clint's belly and he swallowed a groan. Instead, he pressed into the cleft of Phil's ass and licked him open and thrust his tongue in as deep as he could. By the time Clint sat back and got the lube out of the bedside table Phil had gone past begging and straight into that place where every touch, no matter how simple, made him moan with pleasure. Clint left his fingerless gloves on when he coated two fingers with lube and slid them into Phil. He'd ruined dozens of pairs of gloves this way, but he loved the way the black leather looked against Phil's skin as he worked him open, moaning and pliant. Getting Phil slick inside was easy, he was so ready, and it wasn't long at all before Clint finally opened his pants and got his cock out. 

He didn't undress. There was something delicious about being fully clothed while Phil laid naked and spread open. Clint poured lube into his hand and stroked it over his cock, hissing with pleasure. The catch of his glove on his dick was just sharp enough to add a little extra flavor to the sensation. "Turn over," Clint ordered. It took Phil a second to obey, but Clint couldn't bring himself to mind because it was like Phil couldn't quite figure out how to move. Like he'd given up that much control. Clint actually had to help him shift his legs so that Clint was still between them when Phil had changed position.

When he finally settled onto his back, Phil looked at Clint, kneeling between his legs with his cock in his hand, still clad in black t-shirt and vest and pants and combat boots, and moaned helplessly and spread his legs wider. 

Clint chuckled and let go of his dick. "That's good, baby," he murmured, pushing Phil's legs up towards his chest, exposing his hole, and moving in close. "That's perfect." Clint lined himself up carefully and made sure he had Phil arranged just right before thrusting in deep and strong in a single stroke. Phil moaned and arched towards Clint. Satisfaction swelled in Clint as he looked down at Phil, who had braced his hands against the headboard now, holding himself steady for Clint to fuck. His Phil, claimed and collared. Clint set a languid, self-indulgent pace. He had all the time he wanted, and the hot, slick grip of Phil's ass around him was too good to rush through it.

Beneath him, sweat beaded on Phil's skin and ran down his body as he panted and moaned through every thrust, his dick dark with arousal. He didn't reach down to touch himself, though. Clint smiled and wrapped a possessive hand around Phil's cock. It only took a couple of tight, rough strokes before Phil came, sobbing and shuddering. Beautiful. Clint's thrusts didn't falter, and when Phil went limp with satiation, Clint just returned both hands to the job of holding his legs out of the way and snapped his hips harder, burying his cock that much deeper into Phil's sweet, tight hole. Having him like this was almost better than making him beg, and Clint drew it out as long as he could, savoring Phil's total surrender and the visceral pleasure of knowing that this was _his_ , whenever he wanted it, as long as he wanted it. But even Clint couldn't last forever. Eventually he slid over that last crest, his cock throbbing through release, come filling Phil and marking him one more time.

Clint withdrew carefully--after going so long, Phil was bound to be sore--and took a moment to strip off his clothes and toss them on the floor before stretching out on the bed. Phil curled up around him, head pillowed on his chest. Clint tugged the blankets up over them; clean up could wait until they'd come down a little. Instead Clint held Phil close and let his fingers play over the smooth leather circling his throat, smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm reasonably proud of this story, but at the same time, by the time I finished writing it I knew I was never going to write dom!Clint / sub!Phil again. I hope you enjoyed it, I hope other writers write it for the folks that want it, but I learned from writing this story that my muse just doesn't go for it. Every word was a struggle.


End file.
